


i won't let you go.

by jellyjamjelly



Series: sheithweek 2k16 [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Angst, Everything Hurts, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, M/M, SHEITH - Freeform, Sheith Week 2016, What Have I Done, fight me/love me, sheithweek, sheithweek 2k16, they're both prisoners now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8367922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyjamjelly/pseuds/jellyjamjelly
Summary: When Shiro and Keith get caught by the Galra, they never imagined that they would end up fighting each other as gladiators. They lose and gain everything, all at the same time. (sheithweek 2k16 - day 3 - fight me/love me)





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry.

Mind-numbing terror _rips_ through Shiro as his eyes register the face coming into view on the other end of the arena.

Keith _._

Anger flares up inside him, scalding, uncontrollable; a growl resonates in his chest, threatening to reveal itself. He’s fighting _Keith._

His best friend, his teammate, his partner, _his_ Keith.

Their eyes meet, and Shiro sees the same expression of disbelief and fear, the same fucking _pain_ that's just tearing at him from the inside, mirrored on Keith's pale features.

This can't be happening.

(Even though they both kind of expected it would.)

They are both prisoners of Galra. They are both strong combatants. They are _winners._ And for the past month, they have both been fighting to stay alive, putting down opponent after opponent, challenging former champions and earning their titles. They have to have known that they, as the new, most promising challengers, would eventually face each other.

They just never could have thought it would be this soon.

Fuck the Galra. Fuck Zarkon. Fuck Zarkon's idea of this sick, _sick_ joke.

Keith mouths something at him. Shiro is no lip reader, but he can at least make out the words on the lips he has gotten so acquainted with over the past year.

_I can't._

Shiro shakes his head. The voice of the announcer, obviously gleeful as it introduces Shiro and Keith as the former paladins, now challengers out for each other's blood, jolts the two of them out of their stupor, and although white-hot rage courses through their minds - _because they would kill themselves before they would hurt each other-,_ they move uniformly, as though on autopilot, to the centre of the arena, just as they have so many other times. But this time, they are battling their bodies with their minds, trying to put a stop to the legs that are moving them forward, towards each other, within _killing_ distance.

The words that Keith mouthed earlier echoes in Shiro's mind.

_I can't._

_I can't. I can't. I can't._

But now they're facing each other, a foot’s distance away from one another, close enough for Keith to swing his short sword and catch Shiro in the ribs, or for Shiro to swing a brass-knuckled fist at Keith's neck.

The simple thought of it fills them with such  _loathe,_  it pounds on their ribs, ricochets in their chest cavities.

Shiro looks up into the audience. He spots Haggar peering down from her seat next to Zarkon, a wide sneer barely hidden under the shadow of her hood. And Shiro knows. Shiro knows that if they don't fight with actual murderous intent, if someone doesn't _die_ , they'll both be punished later. They'll be brutalised in ways Shiro never wants to think of, never wants to revisit, _never_ wants to wish upon Keith.

(Because he loves Keith. And he hates that he's never told him that.)

Keith, too, is looking up in bewilderment, trying to follow Shiro's line of sight, trying to see what Shiro's seeing, see what's making Shiro shutter his eyes closed with a defeated sigh that's too long, too heavy, too afraid, and more _vulnerable_ than Keith has ever seen him.

Keith has never felt fear like this before.

Maybe once, when Shiro was presumed dead on the Kerberos mission. It took too long to get over his grief, but Shiro eventually came back.

Shiro always, _always_ comes back.

But the voices and the doubts and the whispers flood Keith's head, hammering against his hope, threatening to destroy any remnant he has of it. What if one of them actually ends up _dead_ this time? They will never be able to return to each other. They will be separated for too long, longer than Keith thinks he can stand. He will never be able to tell Shiro how much his existence  _means_ to him. 

Shiro leans in suddenly, lips forming words, his serene voice placating the onslaught of negative thoughts. Keith misses it. He feels like he hasn't heard Shiro's voice in centuries.

“Fight with all you've got, alright buddy?”

Keith looks at him incredulously. He can't do that. He can't hurt Shiro for life. But Shiro, with a glance at the horrified expression on Keith's face, simply chuckles. A deep, rumbling chuckle that Keith sure as hell misses.

“Of course I'll do the same.” Shiro half-shrugs, a movement too minuscule for the loud, blood-thirsty crowd to catch. “I promise. And maybe we'll just tire and pass out without killing each other.” Shiro places a gentle hand on Keith's shoulder, a comforting warmth Keith feels like he hasn't felt in too long, and it takes all of his willpower to not lean into Shiro's touch. Even surrounded by the Galra, Shiro's touch never fails to calm Keith almost immediately.

He still doesn't feel comfortable with this plan. Something seems amiss. But Keith’s head is _such_ a mess of emotions, and he's just been fighting to stay alive for so long, he feels like he doesn't know anything else anymore. He can't think of a better plan, so he nods slowly. Reluctantly. He hates this.

He hates this, he _hates_ this, _he hates this._

But he can't do anything about it.

Shiro gives him a lopsided smile, unsure and hesitant and not quite reaching his eyes, as he steps back and takes a fighting stance. It makes Keith thinks it's alright. That things will go according to what Shiro says.

(He couldn't be more wrong.)

It's not the smile that Keith is used to seeing from Shiro, which is usually so unrestrained and affectionate and _confident_.

(He should have known something was wrong.)

But he has never even imagined that anyone could smile in this kind of situation, so if Shiro's smiling, even if it's a half-smile, and so, _so,_ foreign on Shiro's face, things must be okay, right?

(Wrong.)

To be honest, Shiro's smile just makes Keith want to kiss it.

He steps back as the announcer’s irritating Galra voice rings through the sound system, telling the gladiators to take up their fighting stances, so Keith does. He bends his knees, raises his arms, tilting his sword just slightly. His heart feels like it is sinking, sinking faster than he can catch, sinking too deep to recover. He pushes wave after wave of nausea down, but looks up to catch another of Shiro’s half-smiles. Looking at Shiro shift to mirror his own stance somehow calms him, keeps his heart afloat long enough to regain his hold on it.

The horns blare and they dance.

They fight, moving fluidly, no longer gladiators, but performers of well-rehearsed choreography that has been ingrained into their intuitive reflexes. Duck, block, parry. Lunge, slash, stab.

They spin, agile on the balls of their feet, land lightly with bent knees, swing their metallic extensions, bronze and silver clashing, ringing loud like the soundtrack of their dance. And they are back in the training room, with wooden swords instead of lethal metal ones, sparring comfortably, easily, skilfully, parrying each other’s blows, coming close to each other’s necks once or twice, but never quite fast enough to catch one another. They are equals on the battleground and they know it. Back in the castle, they would train from dawn to dusk, sparring for more than half an hour each time, until somebody stopped them before they collapsed.

Even here, even now, in the stadium reeking of blood and sweat, their routine of strike, dodge, block and parry is perfect. Neither can overwhelm the other. After ten, twenty, thirty minutes, they continue to spar. They don't show signs of tiring. They don't show signs of weakness. They don't show signs of desperation, of bloodthirstiness, of murderous intent. The audience begins to grow restless. Even they can sense that the two challengers lack a killer's resolve, lack the will to take each other’s lives. Shiro and Keith are _comfortable_ with each other. They are rivals and partners, not enemies _. Never_ enemies.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro sees Haggar’s sneer gradually slide into a tight line. The gesture strikes fear in Shiro’s gut, lurking, twisting. His right arm throbs right where the metal and the flesh connects. Shiro knows what he has to do. He just wishes he could have danced with Keith just a little longer, see the dark hair catch the wind just one more time, watch his lithe frame move gracefully, rhythmically, just for a while longer. Shiro is mesmerised. He loves falling into the trance that is sparring with Keith. Back at the castle, and even now, as gladiators.

_Just a little longer._

But time has never been kind.

Keith raises the sword above his left shoulder for a diagonal slash. It is a straightforward, predictable swing he's used many times sparring with Shiro in the training room. Keith knows it's a swing Shiro can easily block and parry with his metallic right arm, can easily swat away as he has done playfully so many times in the past. It is also one of Keith's more powerful blows to anyone hasn't fought him as much as Shiro does, but Shiro has always been stronger, more powerful. They know each other's fighting styles like the backs of their hand, so Keith is _sure_ Shiro can parry this. They have established an comfortable fighting rhythm, and Keith can see Shiro shift into his normal parry stance, right forearm shielding his chest and face. The swing won't be able to breach Shiro's defenses.

But something flashes on Shiro's face - _determination?_ \- that is gone so fast, Keith doesn't have time to decipher it, and even if he can, it's already too late. He's too close to Shiro, sword already bearing down on the former black paladin, his leader, _his partner_. And Shiro drops the parry arm.

The moment Keith sees the arm fall to Shiro's side, a look of determination and resignation and relief all twisted together on the scarred face, Keith is already screaming internally. He desperately tries to pull back, to yank that sword off Shiro, but it's already too late, the blade already running diagonally across that muscular chest.

Too late to save anybody, to save himself.

The feeling of the metal dragging across the tendons in Shiro's shoulders, the sinewy muscle of Shiro's chest, the soft areas of Shiro's stomach, as the sword breaks free of Shiro’s skin and flesh just above his pelvis with a sick spattering of blood on the stadium ground.

So much blood.

 _Shiro's_ blood.

The sight of it almost floors Keith, forces him onto his knees. 

The crowd all around them roars to life, cheering, jeering, screaming in elation.

There is only one blood-curdling scream of agony. Keith doesn't realise that it is his own until he feels his throat close up, so dry, so parched, so _excruciating_. When and how his silent scream forced itself out of his throat, he doesn't know. He watches as Shiro staggers back from the force of the weapon and the shock of the pain. His face is contorted with pain. His body convulses with the aftershocks of pain. The deep gash in Shiro's flesh, exposed by the ruined gladiator uniform cut to ribbons and now soaked with fresh blood, is pain. And Keith is still screaming even though his vocal chords won't let him make another sound.

He is frozen, rooted to the spot.

And then Shiro gives him a smile. A weak smile. But a _genuine_ smile. And Keith doesn't waste a second until he's barreling down towards Shiro, hoping to catch his leader before he hits the ground.

He does. Keith catches Shiro as his body slumps into itself, and gently lays the bigger man down and kneels on the ground himself, cradling Shiro's head in his lap. The buzz of Shiro's undercut tickles Keith's fingers, and it strikes Keith how much he misses it, and how much he _will_ miss it, and how much he doesn't want to miss it. He wants to be able to run his fingers through Shiro's hair everyday for the next ten years, hundred years, thousand years.

For all of fucking eternity.   

The first tears fall, leaving messy tracks of watery grime on Keith's face, mingling with the blood now all over the both of them, pooled around them, soaked into the dirt ground. A gentle thumb wipes tear after tear away. Shiro’s thumb. On his real left hand. His warm left hand. It makes Keith sob even harder. He won't lose Shiro a second time, and hell, not actually for _forever_ this time.

He tries to pick Shiro up.

“We're going to save you. We're going to get you help, okay?”

Shiro shakes his head. His voice is small, weak, coated with blood.

“I'm too far gone, buddy. Sorry, but you'll have to make it out of here yourself.”

Keith is trembling with denial. He can't lose Shiro. _He can't lose Shiro._

_He can't be the one who takes Shiro away._

“You broke your promise, Shiro.” Keith's voice just won't keep calm, shaking, breaking the same way his world, everything he knows and loves, is shattering. “You said we _both_ had to fight with everything we've got.”

”I know. I'm sorry Keith. This will be the last time.”

_This will be the last time I break any promises._

Shiro reaches up with both arms, prosthetic and real, warm and cold, wincing with the effort, pulling Keith's face down until it's inches from his own and presses a soft kiss onto Keith's chapped lips.

Keith loses it. He can't take it anymore. He leans down and takes Shiro's lips in his own. It tastes overwhelmingly of blood, the metallic reminder of Shiro's last dregs of life. Keith wants to breathe life back into Shiro, and he begins to panic in earnest. He wants to pull away, call a medic, have a thousand more mornings and afternoons and nights to taste each other. But Shiro puts a hand on the nape of Keith's neck and pulls him closer still, locking him into heavy embrace, lips still on his own.

A fresh round of tears fall, the sobs wracking Keith's body, shuddering through him, but he can't pull away from Shiro. The kiss is messy, too much teeth and tongue and desperation, mingled with more blood and sweat and tears than saliva. Keith's hands are cupped around Shiro's face, and he can feel Shiro's lips grow colder by the second, see the hollows underneath his eyes, see the tan skin pale under his fingertips, see the life ebb away from his leader, his _partner,_ and somehow, he's never felt more _alive._ He can taste the salt of his tears, the metal of Shiro's blood, and the fleetingness of sweet, _sweet_ , life.

He doesn't understand for the love of god why they haven't done this before, why they haven't done this sooner. Why they haven't kissed each other senseless, breathless, the way they are doing now.

Keith wants this to last forever.

He knows it can't.

Shiro breaks away with a choked gasp, and Keith begins to panic again. He needs to taste Shiro, assure himself that his partner's still alive. That they’re both still alive. But he looks down at Shiro's face, and he knows that he's watching the last moments of the man he loves. Shiro is murmuring something, too weak for Keith to hear, so he curls down, placing his ear to Shiro's lips.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

The mantra of I-love-you's don't stop, and at some point, Keith starts to say it back. The repetition feels good on his tongue, on his lips, exposing, baring, pouring their love for each other into each other in these final moments. They may have just pulled apart their sternums and handed each other their own hearts.

Blood dribbling out of Shiro's mouth accompanies his final 'I love you’.

Shiro's voice is raspy as he whispers his parting words.

“Lead Voltron for me, Keith. Live…”

But before Shiro has a chance to say anything else, the hand on the back of Keith's neck falls lethargically to Shiro's side.

The world seems to freeze around Keith.

And then it all comes rushing back to him at once.

The _reality_ of it all.

More tears fall. Keith screams and curses at Death for taking Shiro away so soon, so prematurely. His hands fist in the bloody fabric of Shiro's ragged shirt. He knows the hoarseness at the back of his throat won't take the pain and the hurt and the rage away. He knows that his tears won't bring Shiro back to life. He screams and pleads and begs, throwing his dignity away in front of the Galra crowd.

_Keith._

The voice is subtler, quieter than a whisper, but clearer, more confident, carrying easily across the deafening roar of the arena crowd.

Subconsciously, he is sure it is Shiro's voice.

He looks around wildly. Shiro's cold body lies in front of him. It can't be.

Then he hears it again, and this time, it is softer than a baby's breath, gentler than a loving caress. He closes his eyes. He knows this is Shiro.

_Live for me, Keith._

**Author's Note:**

> you can yell at me about sheith on [tumblr](https://jellyjamjelly.tumblr.com/ask) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/satokairin).
> 
> you can yell a lot if you want.
> 
> also i like to get feedback! please comment if you feel like it.


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